


Hands-Free

by weeesi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 07:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13185246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeesi/pseuds/weeesi
Summary: “I know what you want.”John.Not here, of course. Safely away, far away from Baker Street, at work. Doctoring.But also here, in Sherlock’s head.





	Hands-Free

**Author's Note:**

> Basically what it says on the tin.
> 
> UPDATE: I've taken the official decision to make this a multi-chapter. So if you like this, be on the lookout for John's...erm....discovery coming soon to an ao3 near you.

Inconceivable. 

He tries again.

Fine. _Inconvenient._

The paste had been a bad idea, he can admit it. 

Coating both palms _by accident_ : poor planning. Not planning, an accident. Mindless blue-brain accident.

Washing off made impossible by the fact that it’s not just there, on his hands, it’s dripping, onto his—well, perhaps a shower then. 

Luckily: a wrinkled sheet, only, which falls from his shoulders easy, a melted pool round his feet that he steps over without looking. Effortless. Swings his weight forward, stands up and out of the kitchen chair. Cool air on his thighs, his bare arse. The thought draws up his skin.

He walks, alone in the flat, down the corridor to the loo with hands spread out wet with goopy quick-dry permanent paste.

Enters, closes the door with a press of a shoulder.

Dark, so he manages the light. Glances at himself in the mirror, analyses the stretch of skin over his chest.

Hair: a tousled mess.

Mouth: pinked-up pinched.

Hands: …drying.

He climbs in, lifts one long foot over the lip of the tub, then the other, tips of his toes pressed down against the cool ceramic to find his balance, off-kilter—he shivers, _the water_ —

Reaches for the taps, wraps a sticky hand round the cold, a sticky hand round the hot, and remembers a moment too late.

 _No mind, it’s_ —

He tugs back, and nothing. Again: nothing. An idiot, pulls once more.

S t u c k.

Inconvenient.

Pasted to the fucking taps.

Had he managed to check the time before he’d, well, done _this_ , he’d know when John’s expected back from his shift. When John could come and rescue him from his—from this. 

A squat plop of paste finally dries on his thigh, tearing at the hairs caught there, tugging.

He looks down at it.

Then at _it_.

The thought returns. Pricks at the base of his skull. 

Water.

He twists on the taps. 

Sprayed hot-cold in the face, he ducks his head, wets it. Hot-cold on the back of his neck, lifts his head up, wets his chest. Adjusts. 

Tries to pull away again. Tugs. He’s caught, stuck on flypaper. Trapped and exposed.

A chill down his spine. Again: the thought.

Warm water down the length of his arms, down his chest to his belly, down his thighs, his calves, his long feet. He shakes his head, blinks. Bats water out of his eyes. Closes them. Looks down. He stretches his toes, widens his stance, breathes. Opens his eyes.

_“I know what you want.”_

John.

Not here, of course. Safely away, far away from Baker Street, at work. Doctoring.

But also here, in Sherlock’s head.

_“Go on.”_

Can’t, he thinks for a moment. He’s, well, struck. Hands off. Hands free. Hands useless. 

He opens his eyes. His cock hangs between his thighs, long, pretty pink. He steps a little closer, stands fully under the hot-cold water. A pull in his bollocks, up the length of his prick, through to his arsehole.

Tensing heavy electric pull.

_“Sherlock.”_

He waits. Watches. His cock pulses. John’s _voice_ , is the thing.

_“I know what you want.”_

What do I want, he thinks.

_“You want to fuck.”_

God.

_“I know you. Sat in your chair, waiting for me to come home. Hiding something in your trousers.”_

Water runs down the sides of his face, down his nose, over his parted lips. Closes his eyes again. 

 _“I can see it. You’re hard for me, Sherlock. So hard you_ ache _.”_

John.

_“What do you do when I come home? Get up, don’t you. With a hard prick between your thighs. I can see it. You know what I want.”_

He swallows.

_“Shove me up against the wall with my jacket still on.”_

Another shiver down his spine. Teasing hard prick, doesn’t he have, he does, he does, with bollocks pulled up close to his body. Threaded heartbeat pulses in his cock. 

Breathes.

Breathes through his nose. Hands clench round the taps. He takes a shaky breath in, blows out through his mouth. Muscles tug low below his belly.

_“Feel me there against you? In our stupid flat? No one to see us? My chest to your chest? My mouth on your mouth? My prick against your prick, Sherlock?”_

He opens his eyes, watches himself, deep pink-red, water dripping off the swollen tip of his cock. Foreskin pulling back, revealing—deep pink-red between his—the pale skin of his body— his—he clenches up from his toes up his calves up his thighs up into the small nervy ring of his arsehole though his bollocks through to the tip of his cock.

H a r d.

Pulsing, again: delicious hands-free pulsing.

_“Sherlock.”_

John is best at his name. Best at waking him up. Best at spiking his blood.

_“Are you going to fuck me here against the wall? Here in the sitting room? Give me what I want, Sherlock.”_

John’s face, John’s bitten-lipped mouth, his eyes, his dark eyes.

I want.

Yes.

I want.

_“Take me to bed and open me up. Take me apart.”_

He moans, low and open-mouthed. Stares down at his stiff aching prick, heavy and standing. He clenches his arse. Holds it.

Thinks.

He’ll give John what he wants.

Walks them down the corridor, John tugging at his trousers, jacket half-off, mouth smeared wet and sweet, kissing, breathing him in, every part of him, his tongue between his lips, hair through his fingers, clothes torn away, John’s chest, bared smooth and scarred, muscles stretching between his hands, beneath his hands, hot against his skin, against the curve of his mouth—

_“I know what you want.”_

A purple-twinged beat at the base of his spine. Eyes open. 

_“You want to fuck, Sherlock.”_

Moaning out on a breath, _god_ , he wants to tug at himself. Can’t. Hot-cold water on his cock. Fingers clenching the taps, eyes open, squeezed shut, eyes open, staring, watching himself want John.

John, before him: naked, cock in hand, pinked-up cheeks, spread open on the bed. Sherlock, stood there: dripping onto the floor.

_“You like watching me like this, waiting for you, wanting your cock?”_

A jolt, a needling desire, pins him. Shaking thighs. He rolls his shoulders, breathes through his nose, in and out through lips parted. His arms ache. It’s an awkward position, stuck to the taps with a stiff prick jutting bare between your thighs—

_“Come here, Sherlock.”_

He does. Kneels up, over John spread out on the bed, hands flat against his chest, his skin.

John’s mouth opens, mouth closes round his prick, hot-close-wet-tight mouth, lips stretched, his dark wanting eyes looking up, looking up at Sherlock, hungry for him, for his cock, for his body, his arse, fingers trailing, pressing into arsecheeks as he sucks at him, wanting—then: licks long and wet up the length of his cock. God, his _eyes_ , his hungry, wanting eyes.

And then: then they’re in the sitting room again, pressed up against the wall. John’s arse in his palms. Spread open. No, John’s room. Thrusting, fingers stretched out—No. Still in Sherlock’s bedroom. John naked beneath him. Tonguing at his prick. 

_“You know I want you. You’ve always known it.”_

John. 

_“The way you look at me. Don’t think I don’t know.”_

He breathes. Clenches, digs his toes into the hard ceramic. Breathes, clenches, breathes, clenches. Water drips down from his soaked-wet fringe.

_“You want me.”_

John.

_“You think about me.”_

John. John’s cock filling his mouth. John pets at his thighs, dips a finger, then two, then three, between arsecheeks.

Water runs in rivulets, doesn’t it. Runs down the length of his needy prick. 

 _God_ , if he could just touch—

_"You think about me when you’re alone. When you sneak a hand down your pants and tug at yourself.”_

John.

_“You think about tearing off my clothes. You’d rip your own shirt in two, wouldn’t you. Desperate.”_

I am.

_“You think about sucking me off, pressing me up against the wardrobe, on the floor, on the stairs. Drinking me in, sucking on me ’til I come.”_

’Til you come down my throat.

He moans again. Drags in a breath through his open mouth. Can’t help it. He’s wet—hot-cold dripping hard—his thighs _ache_ —he grips the taps, trembling—

_“You think about fucking, Sherlock, you can’t help it, you think about it all the time, you think about me pinning you down, opening you up.”_

John. 

_“You think about me fucking you with my tongue.”_

Breathes, clenches, breathes, clenches. High and tight. He’s desperate to wrap a fist round himself, shove two fingers up his arse. His bollocks and his prick throb. _Fuck._ He sucks in another shaky breath through his nose. Head tipped back, moans sloppy and open-mouthed. Doesn’t echo in the steam-filled room, does it. Quiet and alone, dripping hard swollen-pink. Clenching his arsehole, clenching his stuck-on fingers round the taps, he curls his head forward toward his chest, pulsing his prick, tighter and tighter, the weight of it there between his spread legs, thinking of John _wanting_ it, sucking on it, riding it—his aching untouched prick—

_“My mouth on you, my cock in you. Filling you up.”_

He squeezes his eyes shut. Breathes.

_“You think about me pressed up against you, it’s all you can think about, in your bed, in the shower, in my arms, my stiff prick between your thighs and in your mouth and in your arse—”_

God, John.

_“You think about fucking me too.”_

I do.

_“I know what you want.”_

Breathes in.

_“You know what I want.”_

Breathes out.

_“Go on. Come.”_

_J o h n._

Can’t breathe—thighs tense-trembling, spiraling sunken-deep throbbing high tight releasing—the tipping—point— _John—J o h n—_

He gasps and shudders and comes all over the tiled wall. Shaking moans from his chest, he tips his head back eyes blinking, cock gorgeously swollen. _Spent._

“Sherlock?”

John.

John—the real, embodied man—calls out from the sitting room, where he’s just returned from work.

There’s come on the shower wall. His hands are solidly pasted to the taps. Nothing to do but wait.

Well.

It’s now or never, isn’t it.

 

 


End file.
